


bitter and twisted (i'm coming home)

by coffeelouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aggression, Alcohol, Angst, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Non-Consensual, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Smut, a crumbling relationship but still a relationship, and i don't want ppl to read it that way, and this was the product of that, anyway yeah i think i tagged everything triggering, anyway yeah warning you all about that, bc h&l are in a relationship, bc i seriously didn't intend it as rape, being safe here, but i think maybe i wrote angst so intense it started to seem like noncon, but yeah, bye, dubcon, i went through a stage where i was really angsty, i'm only tagging those to be careful, it got out of hand, kind of???, ok if anyone has rape triggers i'd think twice about reading this, ok no u know what i'm tagging noncon just in case, ok now i'm really done, sigh, so yep, sorry about this wOW, when writing it i didn't mean it as rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeelouis/pseuds/coffeelouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and louis have been <em>harry and louis</em> for ages now, but then there's a fight, and it's not one of their little spats, it's a full-blown row like harry's never imagined. louis leaves, and harry thinks maybe he'll never come home again.</p><p>then, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitter and twisted (i'm coming home)

_And still I am addicted to fear and doubt._

Loneliness hits hardest in the middle of the night when the moon shines through the curtains, and Harry doesn’t know why that is.

He’s sat in the left corner of the loveseat by the window, tucked up in an oddly compact way for such a long, gangly body. He thinks maybe loneliness really can eat you alive. Or maybe, instead, it nibbles away at your insides in little tiny pieces but never truly kills you. That way, you live with it until the day you fall asleep and don’t wake up again.

It’s half past two in the morning when Louis trips in the door, which closes with a hollow sound behind him. He doesn’t acknowledge Harry, though Harry’s eyes are trained on the way Louis’ footsteps don’t look or sound quite right. The smell of hard liquor tickles Harry’s nose and Louis is slamming cabinet doors.

“Fucking hell,” he slurs. “Where’s the goddamn Coke?”

Harry doesn’t answer; instead, he draws his feet out from underneath his bum and uncurls himself into a standing position. His skimpy pants, hanging low on his hips, do little to block the chilly air Louis seems to have brought in with him.

Harry hears pans clattering and takes a few tentative steps towards the kitchen. “Bloody hell!” Louis shouts. “I just bought some yesterday, for fuck’s sake. Where the fuck is it?”

There’s a little pool of light that spills from the refrigerator and when Harry steps into it, Louis stiffens. “Why are you searching the cabinets?” Harry asks softly.

Louis’ mouth curls into a sneer. “Oh, bugger off. I’m looking for the six pack of Coke I bought, which evidently has disappeared. Would you happen to know anything about that, _Haz_?”

Harry shivers, and while admittedly he’s got goose pimples running up his legs and arms, it’s really not the cold that’s getting to him. He swallows hard. “Did you check the fridge?”

It’s only for a split second, but Louis falters. “Of course I did. Who do you think I—”

Harry reaches out and opens the refrigerator. A pair of cloudy eyes scans the shelves before landing on three unopened red cans. His lips press into a straight line. “They’re right here,” he says, looking at Louis’ shadowy form in the weak light. “On the middle shelf next to the salad from the other night.”

The kitchen is silent for a moment but then Louis scoffs. “Give me one,” he orders. Then, under his breath, “fucking prick.”

The sound of the refrigerator door closing echoes in Harry’s ears like a gunshot. “You’ve had a lot to drink, Lou.” His voice comes out in feeble pieces. “Let me make you some tea.”

When Harry tries to pass Louis to get the kettle, Louis shoves him aside. Harry’s hip collides with the island and he winces in pain. Louis blinks twice before reforming his face into an expression of contempt. “I said I wanted Coke.” The words are round, bloated with alcohol, too soft in some places and too hard in others. “I thought you were supposed to be gone by now.”

Harry ignores the comment, squeezing his eyes shut against the hot tears pricking in his throat. He was supposed to move out tomorrow. Louis was almost right.

“Sugary drinks aren’t going to help you,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Let me make you a cup of tea, Louis. Please.”

Louis brushes past him and yanks open the fridge door again, rattling jars of jam and salsa. He grabs a can of Coke and pops the seal, nearly dropping it in the process. With swaying movements, he leaves the kitchen and Harry is, once again, alone.

_See the world through a window, a thousand miles; but in my heart, I’m drifting to your tired eyes._

Silently, Harry fills the kettle with water and places it on one of the front burners. He’s always liked the sound of the gas stove clicking on, little blue flames flickering to life. Now, in the empty flat, the sound makes him itch behind his ears.

He can hear the telly coming from the parlor, and if he turns over his shoulder, the lights of the screen make patterns on the walls just outside the archway into the kitchen. The tea kettle begins to whistle and Harry shuts it off, muted anger licking at his insides not so dissimilarly to the flames on the stove.

Louis’ mug from this morning, his favourite one with the Doncaster Rovers logo on it, is still sitting in the sink. Harry picks it up and washes it, not minding the way the hot water scalds his hands. Once it’s clean he pours in the water for tea and adds a bag of Honey Vanilla Chamomile. When he remembers how Louis used to drink the same blend every night before bed in the X Factor house, he nearly chokes on his own tongue and one trail of salt water squeezes its way out of his right eye.

It takes every ounce of will in him to pick up the mug and walk slowly out to where Louis is curled up on the loveseat watching football reruns, sat in exactly the same place Harry was only minutes before. The can of Coke stands forgotten on the coffee table, and Louis doesn’t look up when Harry crosses in front of the telly.

“Here, drink this,” he says quietly, placing the saucer down on the table. “It’s got a dash of cream and sugar the way you like.”

“I told you I didn’t want the bloody tea, Harry.” Louis gaze remains fixed on the football game.

Harry doesn’t know what to do. They’ve had fights before, but this one—this one is different. This one had been brewing for the long time before it finally surfaced in an explosion nearly two weeks before. Louis had been out all night with Eleanor after the premiere of their film and hadn’t come home to Harry, who had been waiting for four hours, until just after five in the morning. Harry had tried to be civil and understanding, he really had. He swallowed his anxiety, his anger, his frustration, but Louis was drunk and Louis yelled when Harry tried to confront him and then Harry couldn’t do it anymore. She’s a _beard_ , Louis, don’t you remember? he’d said, tone biting. You’re not actually dating her, you’re dating _me_.

Louis’ claws were out almost instantly and he fought back with breathtaking ferocity. Harry had stayed the night at Zayn’s and didn’t return until the following evening, and when he did, Louis was gone. Harry had waited in the empty flat until he heard the door open and shut at two in the morning and that was when he knew it wasn’t going to be a fight like the others. This one cut too deep for the wound to heal without a scar.

Harry’s eyes watch Louis’ blank ones as they stare into the telly. The images on the screen are reflected in his blue eyes and Harry thinks maybe Louis is too beautiful for his own good. Beauty is a wonderful gift, but it can be just as dangerous a curse.

“C’mon, Lou,” he whispers hoarsely, taking a step closer. “Just drink it for me. I promise you’ll feel better.”

Finally Louis tears his eyes away and suddenly he is glaring at Harry so severely that Harry freezes in his place. “I feel fine,” he utters. “Bugger off.”

“You’re drunk. You’re the kind of drunk where you get angry and you break things and then you sleep for fourteen hours and wake up feeling like—like some sort of hell is raging inside your head. I hate it when you get that kind of drunk. The tea will help.”

“God damnit, Harry, I didn’t ask for the tea, and I don’t want it! Stop talking to me like I’m a baby; I’m older than you by two bloody _years_.”

Harry inhales sharply. “Just listen to yourself,” he says, and the way it comes out, it’s almost like a soft laugh of disbelief. “Do you hear the way you’re talking? You’re so drunk you can’t even speak correctly.”

Suddenly, Louis is on his feet, cheeks flushed and fists clenched. “I’m twenty-one,” he spits out. “I can take care of myself. You’re not my mother, you’re not my older brother, you’re not my boyfriend, you’re not _anything_. Get the fuck away from me.”

As the curse tumbles from his lips, he lunges forward and knocks the steaming mug out of Harry’s hands. The liquid splashes down Harry’s bare chest and onto his feet, making him yelp in pain. The porcelain shatters as it collides with the corner of the coffee table and then Harry is standing in a puddle of scalding tea and sharp shards of broken tableware. For a long time, there is silence.

_The days push out a rhythm on the open ground; I want to be back where we started._

It’s not for a good half a minute that their eyes meet. Louis’ mouth is open in a small oval of surprise and Harry’s bloodshot eyes are watery with tears of physical and emotional pain. “Fuck you,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Fuck you.”

Suppressed concern flashes hot across Louis’ face. “Christ, I’m sorry, Haz,” he stammers. All of a sudden, he is a different person, and Harry hates it with a frenzied sort of passion. He hates the way Louis thinks he can treat Harry like the gum on his shoe one second and then apologise and try to make it like nothing ever happened. Harry hates Louis, but not as much as he loves him.

"No.” The edges of the word are sharp as the broken porcelain encircling their feet. “No, Louis, you’re not sorry, and even if you are, you don’t _get_ to be. Sorry doesn’t always cut it, you know. Sometimes, sorry isn’t enough.”

Louis’ momentary expression of remorse flickers and sputters like the flames on the stovetop. “Whatever, I’m not sorry, then. I don’t fucking care. If you refuse to accept it, I’m just not going to try. I want you to leave.”

Harry thinks he’s never been this angry in his entire life. Stepping out of the ring of the shattered tea cup, he lets the reddening burns on his chest and feet fuel him. “This is my house, too, you know,” he sneers, eyes squinting into Louis’. “It belongs to you and me, and I’m not going to leave if I don’t want to.”

“You’re moving out tomorrow.” Louis spins on his heel and turns away. “So yes, you are. Have a nice life.”

For an instant, Harry sees a flash of the very first time he kissed Louis in the living room of his stepfather’s condo, watching the feather-haired boy walk away—except this time, Louis doesn’t stop after a few steps and hurl himself back into Harry’s arms.

This time, Harry grabs him. He grabs him by the arm and whirls him around, nearly tripping the lad in the process. “You’re an absolute prick, you know that?” It comes out in a whisper, but somehow, it’s far more potent than yelling. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

Harry’s advancing now, bumping his chest into Louis’ and forcing the older boy to retreat. He stumbles in his haste, a shot of fear racing down through his veins. “Why don’t you go sleep at Grimmy’s, then?” Louis musters all the aggression he can, but it still comes out laced with the panic in his eyes. “Let him fuck your brains out, make you scream, make you cry. Bet it’ll never be as good as when I give it to you.”

Louis bumps into the opposite wall and before he’s got the chance to react, Harry pins down both wrists with enough force that it stings. “Take it back,” he snarls, breath hot against Louis’ cheek.

Louis dares to meet his eyes. “No.”

_I wake up screaming and realise I’m dreaming, and know it’s finally my time._

So Harry kisses him.

Harry kisses Louis so hard their teeth smash together and Louis’ lip starts to bleed. Harry can taste the blood in his mouth, can hear Louis keen with fright, and that’s when he knows he’s taken it too far. Louis might have been out of line when he overturned the tea onto Harry’s exposed skin, but Harry knows how blind he gets when he’s angry. He knows what havoc he can wreak on everyone around him, he knows how he loses all sense of control, he knows how horrific he can be. But he won’t snap out of it, won’t stop. He can’t.

Harry licks into Louis’ mouth, licks at the blood, and somehow kisses harder, more than hard enough to bruise. Louis is slackening under him, muscles surrendering, and Harry’s hurting him, he really is.

“Take it back,” Harry repeats, and Louis mewls like a child. There’s a short pause and then Harry’s lips graze Louis’ ear. “Fine. You don’t want to take it back? I’ll make you, then. I’ll make it hurt.”

He bites down on Louis’ ear lobe and Louis yelps, wrists straining against Harry’s grip. They’re kissing again a moment later, Harry’s lips trailing and biting down the path of Louis’ neck, sucking purple bruises into the canvas of copper skin. Harry’s boxers are tented now, his dick throbbing painfully within its loose confines, and he’s a bit appalled with himself, a bit terrified. Still, he does not stop.

As he puts all his energy into kissing Louis, Harry drops his guard. Suddenly Louis is able to yank his wrists from their restraints and he shoves Harry backwards. “Off me,” he splutters, gasping for breath.

Harry’s so shocked that in the next second, Louis has turned the tables and pinned him to the wall. “How do you like it now?”

This time, when they kiss, Louis has the upper hand. He grinds his hips up into Harry’s, feeling the length of the green-eyed boy’s stiff member pressing urgently against him. Louis’ cock is beginning to swell with lust, and somehow, the way his wrists are aching from being held eggs him on. He sucks Harry’s lip into his mouth and licks as deep as he can.

Louis is about to remind Harry that he’s the one in control and always will be when Harry abruptly hikes him up by the ass and flips them both around so Louis’ back is once again pressed up to the cold wall. Harry’s hands splay out over his ass cheeks and he squeezes hard, rutting against him. “Not tonight,” he mutters into Louis’ mouth. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

The next thing Louis knows he’s being thrown rather impersonally onto the king size mattress they used to share before Louis kicked Harry out onto the couch. Harry crawls over him and for some reason, seeing the boy hulking over him, all bare skin and muscle and determination, sends a shiver down his spine.

Harry yanks Louis’ shirt over his head before Louis can even take a breath, and then he’s tugging impatiently at the waistband of Louis’ trousers and pants. “Off,” he orders, eyebrows knitted together, and that’s when Louis knows he should be scared. And then, like a light switch going on, he is.

He doesn’t waste any time. With Harry’s hands fumbling next to his, he unceremoniously strips himself of his new trousers and the Batman pants Liam bought him two Christmases ago. It’s odd, because Harry’s seen him decked out in far more scandalous attire (or lack thereof), but Louis’ cheeks go red as Harry’s eyes take in the juvenile fabric.

However, it only takes a second before the pants are gone, too, tossed to the floor and forgotten immediately. Louis’ distended cock lies heavily against his stomach, dead weight, throbbing to be touched, and yet he knows he’ll be lucky if Harry’s hands so much as graze him. They’ve never been here before, never explored this territory—Louis is almost always the one with the upper hand—but now, Louis knows. He just knows.

“Fucking aching for it,” Harry hisses, licking his lips. “Fucking squirming for me. I’ll bet you’ve wanted this for ages. I’ll bet when you fuck me, you pretend I’m the one fucking you, yeah? Fucking _whore_.”

Louis is pretty sure he’s never heard Harry swear so much in a thirty-second interval. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s never heard Harry swear so much in several hours. It’s becoming very clear very fast that there is a side to Harry Louis has never seen before. And maybe it’s just because they’re fighting, but maybe it’s been lurking there all along, just waiting to come out.

Harry, completely oblivious to the chaos going on in Louis’ head, slams his lips into the older boy’s and plants a knee between his legs. Under the current circumstances, Louis is hyperaware of how not one inch of Harry’s body comes into contact with his leaking cock, and he hates him for it.

“You’re going to suck me,” Harry hisses from between clenched teeth. “And then I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t get up for days.”

It’s all Louis can do not to cry, honestly. His lips are cracked and bloody, his neck is swollen with bruises, and if he’s not allowed to touch his cock in a minute he’s pretty sure he’s going to die. He bites down on his tongue and tastes blood again. Maybe some mercy will show and he’ll pass out. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised.

But Harry’s got himself seated, legs spread slightly, and he’s dragged Louis between them, holding tightly to his hair. One hand curls loosely around his bright red cock and Louis salivates a little, he fucking _salivates_ , and the saliva mixes with the blood and then a real tear slips out and there’s nothing he can do.

Harry guides his head down—no, a better word would be _forces_ —and Louis’ hasn’t got a choice. He parts his lips and tries to go slow, tries to focus on the head for a moment, but Harry’s not patient, not today, and suddenly Louis feels him hit the back of his throat and he gags. He hears Harry chuckle, feels the reverberations. “You’ll take it back,” he murmurs, and Louis had nearly forgotten the comment he made about Nick.

And Louis sucks. He swallows around Harry’s cock and then he moves upwards, drawing back, and flattens his tongue so he can feel the pulsation along the vein on the underside of Harry’s thick member. It’s obscene, really, the way the blood and the tears and a little bit of precome mix together in his mouth, and it’s obscene that he swallows it without a second thought. Then again, everything about him and Harry has been obscene.

The first relief Louis feels is when he hears Harry groan. It’s a low groan, one of the ones that tumbles accidentally out of his throat, but it’s there and Louis loves it. He drinks it in and it spurs him on, makes him work harder, until his head is bobbing fast up and down Harry’s cock and Harry’s hands are barely holding on. “Shit,” Harry mutters, and that’s it, Louis is burning with satisfaction. “Shit, Lou—”

Louis feels Harry hit the back of his throat and then the younger boy keens forward, shoving Louis off, and he grabs his dick with one hand and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Fuck, you…” He’s breathless, and Louis’ cheeks are streaked with tears, and he’s crouched at the end of the bed with his cock dangling heavy between his legs, “you dirty fucking whore.”

Louis should’ve been ready, really, but he wasn’t, and he gasps when Harry pushes him back into the pillows and spreads his legs wide. A rush of cold air hits him and Louis feels the hairs on his arms prick up. Closing his eyes, he wills Harry to let him off easy, to somehow make this less painful than he knows it’s going to be.

But, of course, it’s to no avail.

Harry trails a finger over Louis’ hole and he clenches tightly against the touch. Harry laughs. “Is this how it feels? Is this how it feels when you bend me over and fuck into me? How do you like being me?”

Louis wants to scream. When he doesn’t answer, Harry presses his lips together and bends down. His breath hits Louis’ hole and Louis knows what’s coming before it happens. Harry grabs his hands as they’re drifting to his cock and holds them fast against his stomach. Then, without preamble, Harry’s tongue presses into Louis’ body and Louis whimpers.

“Harry,” he chokes out, back arching up off the bed. “Harry, I—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear you.”

And Louis does. He knows—well, at this point, it’s hope, not certainty—that Harry doesn’t truly mean it, but still, the words cut into his skin and draw blood in little beads. Harry’s tongue fucks into him little by little and Louis knows better than to squirm, knows better than to show the discomfort taking over his body. He turns instead to focusing on tightening each of his muscles individually. First it’s his calves, then his quads, then his butt and his abs, then his pecs, then—

Harry’s stopped. He’s kneeling over Louis, jerking himself off, trailing two fingers over Louis’ hole and staring at him with terrifying focus. “Gonna fuck you raw,” he croaks, voice wrecked, and Louis realises it—he’s not getting prepped.

Louis’ taken advantage of Harry more times than he’s got fingers and toes, but he’s never fucked Harry without fingering him at least a little beforehand. His eyes go wide and he can taste the fear in his mouth, more potent than the blood. “No,” he whispers. “Please, Harry, I’m not ready—”

“Too bad,” Harry says absently, cutting him off. He’s shuffled forward, positioning himself over Louis’ face, his cock hanging over Louis’ mouth. “Suck. It’s in your best interest.”

Louis sucks. He sucks Harry as wet as he can, musters up saliva until he’s choking on it, and then Harry pulls out and grabs him by the ankles and _Jesus Christ, he’s really going to do this_. Louis braces himself when he feels the head of Harry’s cock push up against his protesting hole, but there’s nothing to hold onto, not really. This is it.

It’s agonising, the full two minutes it takes for Harry to push in and bottom out. Louis can’t help but release a cry of pain that is so unimaginably intense he finds himself sobbing openly, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please,” he cries over and over. “Harry, it hurts.”

Harry ignores him so thoroughly that Louis isn’t even sure he’s heard him. Once he’s in, he remains still for a long moment, eyes closed and head tipped up to the ceiling. Louis moans.

“Tell me you take it back,” Harry breathes.

Louis literally cannot speak fast enough. “I take it back! I take back everything I’ve said. Fuck, Harry, I take it back, I’m sorry—”

“Good.”

And that’s when Harry starts to move.

Louis screams. It’s not a loud scream, nothing ear-shattering, but it’s a scream nonetheless, because it hurts so badly he’s not sure if he’s imagining it or not. Harry’s pulled out halfway and begun to push back in, going slow simply because he physically cannot go any faster. Louis is too tight. Every muscle in his body is working against Harry.

“You’re a slut,” Harry whispers. “Hear me? You’re a dirty cockslut just like you tell me. I think it’s been you all along.”

Louis can’t answer. His lips are pursed together and he’s seeing stars behind his eyelids and for the love of God, Harry’s beginning to stretch him out, and he’s moving more easily now, but that doesn’t mean the sharp sting is in any way fading. Louis thinks maybe he’s feeling every pain he’s ever felt before right in this moment with Harry flush and full inside of him. Louis thinks maybe he can’t breathe.

It takes a minute, but Harry begins to thrust with a steady rhythm in and out of Louis’ protesting body. His grip on Louis’ ankles grows in intensity, which only adds to the feather-haired boy’s pain, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he focuses on driving into him, hitting the same spot time after time, relishing in the way Louis constricts around his cock.

The thing is, Harry knows he’s hurting Louis. He knows he’s gone too far, and he’s known from the moment he kissed Louis so hard he made him bleed that he will never be able to undo his actions. He knows, but it doesn’t stop him.

By the time Louis has loosened up enough for Harry to slide in and out easily, he’s wilted against the mattress and drifting in and out of consciousness. Harry lets go of his legs and lowers them onto his shoulders. The weight there keeps him grounded in the present, and he needs that right now. Louis is producing these tiny, soft mewling sounds, and Harry is so close to coming that he’s shaking from head to toe.

“Tell me you love me,” he blurts, and once the words are out, there’s nothing he can do to take them back.

Louis, however, doesn’t hesitate. “I love you,” he cries. “I love you, Harry. I’ve always loved you. I’ve never stopped, and I’m never going to stop. Christ, _I love you_.”

Harry’s hips are growing sloppier and more erratic as he fucks into Louis, and _no, it can’t be over so soon_ , but it is, it’s going to be, because he’s holding on by impossibly thin strands and they really won’t hold much longer.

“Don’t you dare come before I do,” he mutters, just for the hell of it, and Louis moans, head lolling to one side. Harry’s pace quickens and he can barely hold himself up now.

“I love you,” Louis blurts, and Harry knows it’s futile, it’s in the moment because he’s in pain and he’s wrecked and he’s only half-conscious, but Harry still trembles when he hears the words. “I don’t want you to move out and I don’t want to fight anymore. I love you, Harry, I love you; please, God, I need to come, holy shit—”

That’s it, that’s all Harry can take. With a throaty moan and one last snap of his hips he comes harder than he ever has before, so hard that he really doesn’t notice Louis coming only seconds after him until he sees the streaks of white across the boy’s chest below him. And Louis is crying, really crying; Harry could hear it in his voice, but he sees the way his shoulders shake now, sees the damp spots on the pillow and the matted hair and the shiny cheeks. Harry needs to breathe, he needs to find his place in reality again after such a violent high, but what he needs more than anything is for Louis to be okay.

He pulls out, slow and careful, and Louis’ little whimpers are torturous music to his ears. “I’m sorry,” he splutters through a thick knot in his throat. “Shit, Louis, I’m so sorry…”

But Louis is crying so hard he can’t answer. For a long time Harry lies there beside him, touching but not really touching, and then he goes and fetches a hot washcloth and cleans away the cum from Louis’ body. Once they’re washed, Harry climbs back beneath the covers and brings Louis with him, tucking the visibly frail boy into his body.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, pressing his lips to Louis’ ear. “I can’t explain how sorry I am. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

This time, Louis turns away, but before he does, Harry catches a nod of acceptance, and that’s all he needs for right now. He lets Louis curl himself into his body and Harry adjusts around him, holding on but not too tight. He can feel Louis’ heartbeat against his own and he wonders if he’s ever heard such a beautiful sound.

A long time passes and then Louis’ breath evens out and Harry’s pretty sure the boy has fallen asleep. A single tear falls from Harry’s eye and then he shuts them, locking his arms around the boy he’s loved since the moment he laid eyes on him. He knows it doesn’t matter, because Louis can’t hear him, but he whispers the three words one more time, just for good measure. Because maybe he needs to hear it for himself, too.

“I love you.”

_I’m coming home now, baby, I’m coming home._


End file.
